


the night dances

by savi0urdr3amer



Category: Fire Emblem Echoes: Mou Hitori no Eiyuu Ou | Fire Emblem Echoes: Shadows of Valentia, Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem 外伝 | Fire Emblem Gaiden
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, Closeted Character, Crisis of Faith, F/F, Fictional Religion & Theology, Heavy Angst, Possession, Relationship Study, Secret Relationship, Witch!Mae, maelica, mention of familial abuse, mentions of abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-01
Updated: 2018-03-01
Packaged: 2019-03-25 11:57:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13833798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/savi0urdr3amer/pseuds/savi0urdr3amer
Summary: There’s a blue undertone to her skin now that looks almost gray in the fresh moonlight, an apathetic color certainly far from fitting for a girl with a personality as vibrant as her hair. Her ashen lips curl into a sinister smile as her hair, a far paler shade of pink now, drifts about her face, hardly kept tame in messy, curly pigtails.Celica dreamt of her more than once- how she hovers from the ground now as if from a thread, a ballerina on a string, the ethereal way she moves like black water in a bottomless ocean. Her long fingers are purple at the tips and every word she speaks is poison, yet it’s so sweet, so melodic, it's like sugar falling from her mouth.She’s jumbled. So jumbled.“Celica. I came back for you.”





	the night dances

**Author's Note:**

> "The comets  
> Have such space to cross,
> 
> Such coldness, forgetfulness.  
> So your gestures flake off---
> 
> Warm and human, then their pink light  
> Bleeding and peeling. 
> 
> Through the black amnesias of heaven.  
> Why am I given
> 
> These lamps, these planets  
> Falling like blessings, like flakes
> 
> Six-sided, white  
> On my eyes, my lips, my hair
> 
> Touching and melting.  
> Nowhere." -The Night Dances, Sylvia Plath

The terrors dragged Mae away screaming.

Chasing them, Celica made it halfway through a pool of acid in the swamps before the magic barrier shielding her dissipated enough to burn her skin, and she would’ve drowned in it had Valbar not held her back. She sobbed as his arms wrapped around her waist and locked her in place, watching Mae reaching out for her as they pulled her by her hair, by her clothes, with their bony fingers, treading off on half-dead horses with visible ribcages.

She begged him to let her keep going, to let her save her, to bring her back. But they all knew just how high the stakes were, and how valuable Celica was- she was no ordinary girl, after all. Princess Anthiese was irreplaceable. While her identity was something she tried to keep from the army, over time it became increasingly obvious of exactly _who_ she was, especially with Conrad’s arrival. The coppery auburn hair, the bandaged hand, the formalities- eventually it all came spilling out. Saber had joked once that there was a way of telling commoners apart from royalty. While sipping his rum he motioned to the dagger Celica had offered up to him in exchange for his service. _You see that? That ain’t something a commoner has, lass._ And he was right.

She was lucky that they didn’t care, that they didn’t feel deceived by her; if anything, the army is more protective of her now than ever. She’s hardly ever allowed on the front lines, not without Saber or Kamui or Valbar, and the majority of the time she ends up healing on the sidelines with Genny. Celica knows all of this, has _always_ known it, but being held back from saving the person she loved more than anything felt far less like a protective measure and more like merciless torture.

“What are they going to do to her? Are they going to bring her back?” Celica bombarded Sonya with questions, though it was clear she had little patience for all of them at once. Truthfully, Celica couldn’t be angry at herself for pestering her as much as she did- Sonya had experience with the Duma faithful, right down to Jedah himself. If anyone was going to know about their tactics, it was her.

“Listen to me,” Sonya responded, blunt but not unsympathetic. There was an edge to her voice that felt like the tip of a needle. “They may try to strike some kind of bargain with us. In exchange for you. Mae is a gifted mage, but you’re not someone we can offer up in order to get her back. Surely you know this.”

“Yes.” Celica said, dryly. There was nothing else she _could_ say, nothing that she knew.

“They’re not going to kill her on the spot. That would be too much of a hassle for them.”

“So she’s alive.” Kamui said. Beside him, Leon dozed off with a soft snore, using his arms as a pillow. His lavender hair draped over his shoulder as he shifted and mumbled something that was half-conscious at best.

“Currently, yes. But what I’m worried about is far worse than her dying.”

“Spit it out, then.” Kamui took a sip of water and wiped the excess away with his sleeve.

Sonya sighed. “I know Jedah. He’s going to see the talent she has… and he’s going to sacrifice her to Duma to use her however he wants. He’s going to make her a witch.”

“So what do we do then?”  

“We do the only thing we can do. We kill her.”

-

Two weeks later Celica sees her amidst the trees, floating mere inches from the ground. Her silhouette is black against the darkening sky, its wide canvas left with only a few streaks of purple from the setting sun. It’s been like this every night since Mae was taken.

The first thing Celica does is scream. It’s an ugly sound, shrill and dissonant and cracking with something far worse than just fear. She screams, runs, feeling the tears blooming in her eyes and the guilt heavy in the back of her throat like a weight that crushes her bones, and she frantically sprints to the main tent where Sonya is. By the time she reaches it Sonya’s already trudged out, brows knitted, armed with a blade Saber made and a Seraphim tome. The words come out a mess – all she sobs about is Mae, Mae, Mae, it’s not her, please tell me we don’t have to _kill_ her, Sonya, _please-_

“I’m sorry.” Is the first thing Sonya says. Her voice is heavy and low. “There’s nothing else we can do to help her.”

No amount of preparation or warning could’ve prepared Celica for the realization that her worst nightmare was now truly there, and wearing the face of someone who was her best friend. And even more than that.

Mae’s alone. Or at least she looks to be. A few steps behind her, Sonya mutters about how she wouldn’t put it past Jedah to have reinforcements further back, waiting to strike, but she also isn’t surprised that it’s only her. It’s deliberate, she continues. Everyone else is behind her now _. What worse way to get to Celica than to give her best friend a fate worse than death and send her back out? More salt for the wound_ , she says to Genny and Palla, who both nod. Est swallows hard and cringes.  

“Don’t attack her. Not yet.” Sonya instructs, speaking louder now as Mae approaches them. Her knees are bent at awkward angles, as if her legs are broken, and tiny violet ripples drift around her and evaporate into the air like water on a blistering day. It’s almost like she isn’t even moving.

“Can I… can I talk to her? Please?” Celica sniffles and stifles a sob.

“It won’t work. But go ahead.”

There’s a blue undertone to her skin now that looks almost gray in the fresh moonlight, an apathetic color certainly far from fitting for a girl with a personality as vibrant as her hair. Her ashen lips curl into a sinister smile as her hair, a far paler shade of pink now, drifts about her face, hardly kept tame in messy, curly pigtails.

Celica dreamt of her more than once- how she hovers from the ground now as if from a thread, a ballerina on a string, the ethereal way she moves like black water in a bottomless ocean. Her long fingers are purple at the tips and every word she speaks is poison, yet it’s so sweet, so melodic, it's like sugar falling from her mouth.

She’s jumbled. So jumbled.

“Celica. I came back for you.” Mae drawls, a twisted hymn, elongating Celica’s name like it’s a plea. There’s a warped tone of bliss in her voice that makes Celica shiver. She swears she feels her blood turn cold, every vein in her body freezing down to the tiniest of capillaries.

“Don’t listen to her. She doesn’t know what she’s saying.” Sonya says sternly, her lips forming a thin line. There’s a resolution in her voice that Celica doesn’t have right now; she’s cracking inside, nauseous, drunk on the darkness of Mae’s eyes, how they look glazed over and no longer reflect light like an aged gem coated in dull glass.

“She remembers me,” Celica stammers. There are tears in her eyes and she’s shaking. _She doesn’t know what she’s saying._ Sonya’s words swim in her head like mermaids and nymphs, in the same way Mae moves, with far more grace than she ever had before, when she was simply a goofy teenager with a gawky fashion sense and arms far too long for a girl her size.

“It’s not Mae. Not anymore.”

But it is though, it _is,_ Celica wants to scream back at her. It is Mae, with her slim wrists and ankles (she had to poke holes in her sandals to make them fit), her slightly crooked teeth and narrow shoulders, and her cat-like face and messy tuft of pink hair. She has the same freckles on her arms, the ones she showed Celica when they were little back in Novis, their feet hanging off of a peer dock, toes skating on the surface of the water. _They’re like constellations,_ She had said. _That’s what my mom has always told me. I don’t see it, but I guess they’re pretty cool._

(A few days later she got scolded by a clergymen in the school library for talking too loudly, and she was forced to sit in the back pew by herself during prayer because she couldn’t sit still and focus long enough to memorize the verses Nomah had taught them)

 _What does the Mother’s presence feel like?_ Mae had asked her one night when their only other company was the stars. They were twelve and Celica was undergoing priestess training, while Mae was slacking on another night of studying. Beside them, Celica’s notes were neat and compiled, filled with details on how to bless athames and make incense the proper way, right down to how much lavender she needed, how much thyme and rosemary she had to crush. (Whereas Mae’s messy handwriting and low test scores earned scolding from the high priestesses. She was a problem child, they said)

 _I think her presence is a peaceful one._ Celica replied, her fingertips brushing against Mae’s. _When she’s with me… I feel loved. Protected._

 _So like how I feel when I’m with you?_ Mae chimed with a bashful grin, weaving their fingers together. The dampness of the dock was cool against their skin as the lull of the sea sloshed gently at the soles of their feet.

Celica snorted. _Sort of. I’m no Mila Herself, though I suppose you have the right idea._

 _Well, you’re perfect to me, you know._ Mae said, sing-song as she scooched closer to Celica to kiss her.

_You’re quite the flatterer. Consider me charmed._

Beneath the stars Mae’s lips were as soft as petals and the scent of the chapel’s incense drifted around them (it always lingered in Celica’s clothes no matter how many times she washed them), and beneath a handful of wrappings Celica’s brand tingled, a pins and needles feeling she seldom experienced.

But there are no stars in the sky tonight.

“Do… do you know how I feel right now?” Mae says, her grin growing bigger, pulling almost unnaturally at the corners of her lips. She floats towards Celica with one arm outstretched, as if reaching out for her. “I feel… loved.”

There’s a dagger in Celica’s heart now, made of longing and grief and fear. Romance was forbidden for the priestesses- initiate or not. For years they hid their relationship, sharing kisses only in the dead of night, hiding each other’s clothes in the far corners of their rooms, and when the two of them were in public there were no interlocked hands or affectionate glances that all the other couples in the priory seemed to share so often. They were best friends- nothing more, nothing less.

And Mae seems to remember that they were far more than that.

Mae’s fingers are the color of bruises, of a cloudy night sky in the merciless embrace of a cold winter, like the ones that froze over the waters of the priory and made children drown when they tried to walk atop the ice.

“Don’t let her touch you.” Sonya interjects. Celica can hear the magic crackling at her fingers, along with the bells and chimes of Seraphim threatening to be casted. Motionless, Celica doesn’t listen, caught instead in the bleakness that’s Mae’s stare, emotionless and endless like a black hole hanging in the furthest recesses of space. She’s like a husk, an outline made of chalk, a puppet that wears her body like a costume and her face like a mask, and Celica finds herself trapped in the endless expanse of her own memories. Her brand blazes now, itches and stings like a burn, and she would’ve gasped at the pain if she wasn’t so mortified.

She’d always told Mae that her favorite thing about her was her eyes- they were expressive, warm, and passionate, the color of hot chocolate mixed with the light of a topaz.

Mae always laughed at compliments. It was a nervous habit of hers, Celica learned, especially when they came from her. When nervous Mae became even more jittery than usual- her already short attention span reached miniscule levels, and her hands would become clammy. Celica spent countless nights soothing her, reassuring her that yes, she’d talk to the priestesses and tell them her low grades could be fixed. She could tutor her. Mae wasn’t going to face her father’s wrath or his drunken lashes, or her mother’s harsh criticism. It was going to be okay.

Mae isn’t laughing now. As the light of Seraphim hits her she lets out something between a shriek and a wail as she recoils. The spell sizzles against her skin and her voice shoots to a distorted octave akin to nails raking against a chalkboard. In all the years Celica has known Mae, she’s memorized many things about her- that nervous laugh she knows so well, the way she stutters when she’s caught off guard, how she cries only around Celica because she doesn’t trust anyone else enough.

And that sound is one she never wants to memorize. One she never wants to hear again.

With a guttural gasp Mae whirls back around, partially shielding her face with her arms as the Seraphim eats at her already tattered clothes. Celica has seen Mae scared, frustrated, disappointed- but she’s never seen Mae angry. Not until now.

“You _wench_ ,” Mae snarls; the words are like acid spilling from her lips.

Sonya launches another beam of Seraphim at her, more powerful this time; as it shoots past Celica she can feel the heat of it against her arm, and it partially burns through the fabric of her sleeve.

“It hurts,” Mae howls, clawing at her face, as if to ease her pain. Like it’s some kind of itch she can scratch. “You… you always said it, Celica… you said you’d _help_ me.”

Sonya pulls Celica back into a field of light as Mae’s magic slashes violently through the air with violet crescents. It creates a whirlwind around her that Sonya can’t fully contain; jabs of it seep through the barrier and cut the fabric of her cape, and one misses Celica’s eye so narrowly it slices against her cheekbone and draws blood. Mae’s still caterwauling.

Mae warps the second Sonya’s spell fades, and teleports so quickly she’s gone by the time Celica blinks. She reappears in front of her, floating higher now, her bony fingers following the curve Celica’s jawline and trailing up to the fresh wound that leaks from her cheek.

She’s bloody and burnt and bruised, all of the bones visible in her face and her ribs. Her blood is so dark it looks black, like blotches of ink against her ghostly skin.

“You’re so beautiful, Celica.” Mae whispers, lightly pressing against the cut enough to make it sting. “Do you remember… the story…about the shooting stars?”

It was an old wives tale she heard from the older priestesses at the priory. She told it to Mae one night while they were stargazing; it was back when Celica first learned how to read star charts and coordinate rituals for the Mother based on their alignment.

 _See that?_ Celica pointed to one of the constellations, her finger following a speck of white-red light as it danced through the sky. _They say that seeing shooting stars is a symbol of good luck. Some make wishes whenever they see them. Others say that if you’re with the person you love when you see one, you’ll always be together._

 _Really? Huh._ Mae rested her head on Celica’s shoulder and nuzzled lovingly against her. _So that means we’ll be together forever then, right?_

Celica smiled so wide it hurt. _Looks like it._

Her memory is juxtaposed with a virulent howl. A spear of light pierces through Mae’s chest and creates a burst of white-gold light around them, filled with feathers and spheres suspended in magical stasis. Celica watches, horrified, as Mae collapses against her, her breathing labored, and within seconds her knees buckle and her weight brings them both to the ground. The thickets dig into Celica’s legs as she pulls Mae into her, cradling her like a child, blood oozing from the fresh wound in her chest as the last remnants of Seraphim fade. She’s lukewarm and sickly, like some kind of frail doll threatening to break under even the slightest amount of pressure, and with a sob Celica presses Mae’s head into the space where her shoulder becomes her neck, her fingers digging into her messy pink hair.

No one stops her. Not anymore.

“Do… you remember it?” Mae repeats weakly, practically limp in Celica’s arms.

Celica nods as she stains what little is left of Mae’s clothing with tears. She’s silent after that. Her breathing stops. 

-

Later, Sonya tells Celica that it was a mercy. But it doesn’t feel like one.  

-

There’s another old wives tale that says it’s bad luck to bury a witch. Additionally, it’s borderline heretical for a priestess of the Mother to perform burial rites on her.

Celica never prays again after that.


End file.
